


Bondwitch

by AlchemicWriting



Category: Bondwitch Series, Original Work
Genre: Canon Lesbian Relationship, Dominant/Rebellious Sub, Eventual Romance, F/F, Fantasy, Magic, Obsession, Original Character(s), POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Male Character, POV Original Character, Politics, Princes & Princesses, Rating subjected to change, Reinassance, Romance, Witches, Worldbuilding, Yuri, warfare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-11 06:45:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11143023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlchemicWriting/pseuds/AlchemicWriting
Summary: "She’s sleeping right now. On my bed. Naked, as always. The… details of our pact, as I discovered, were remarkably different from what I expected. The witch, the Bondwitch, had little use for royal blood, unlike her sisters did in times long past. She craves only one commodity, one of sighs and flesh, one of tongue and teeth, one of forbidden things, deeds that would have me cast from my lofty place as Princess and trailed as a common streetwalker around Menenia, shunned by the very people I am trying to save."Ever since ancient times, the tiny Kingdom of Menenia was protected against invasion by seven witches, thanks to a Pact. Centuries later, the seven witches now lost to time and war, there's no one ready to defend the Kingdom from conquer... until Princess Alba, newly-crowned ruler of Menenia, finds one lost witch, unaccounted for,Cornelia, and makes a pact with her.Now she's going to discover whether it was worth it.____Original fiction: yuri, magic, explosions, politics, war and Reinassance fantasy, all in one!Part of a Challenge to write 20000 words per month!Updates here on Wednesday and Saturday!Updates on www.alchemicwriting.com on Tuesday and Friday!





	1. Witch in Church on Sunday

# We, Princess Alba of Menenia, first of Our name, will try our best to remain calm as We recollect the Bondwitch affair. The first week of it, better. It produced a fair enough great amount of embarrassment to Us.

 

I think I can even drop the _plurales maiestatis_. After all, who’s going to read these pages but me? It’s more like a dairy for my own use than a true account. Thus, what’s more to say about the war, and the Duke’s invasion of our lands? A better question might be: why now?

 

I tried to answer this questions for months as news of the Duke’s army came ever closer and more panicked and the atmosphere in my kingdom reached new heights of anxiety, never seen since the last invasion attempt. But then, my forefathers still had use of the witches. Maybe news had finally got out: in Menenia nobody has seen a witch for dozens of years. I don’t blame the Duke. I blame ourselves.

And without witches to protect our tiny kingdom, what was more to defend us? The High Guard, as much a valiant captain and tactician Alfiere is, is a handful of warriors who might protect my person in a rabble, but I cannot stretch them thin to cover the entirety of my country. Can Menenia’s walls protect us? They were, according to legend, raised by the fabled Seven Witches, when they asked my forefathers for asylum and protection, all those centuries ago, and in fact there is not a finest example of protective walls west of lost Constantinople. Not that walls built to stop men can halt cannonballs.

As for a marriage alliance, it might have been feasible, hadn’t Father been struck ill and withered on his bed in the course of four weeks. I went from playing with deer and singing songs in the woods to having to fight tooth and nail for the control of my Country, and the crown has weighed heavily upon my brow since.

Truly hard times. Was I justified in unleashing the Bondwitch then? Many would speak against it: even Andronicus, Keeper of the Key, was less than pleased to find out there was still a witch drawing breath in Menenia.

She’s sleeping right now. On my bed. Naked, as always. The… details of our pact, as I discovered, were remarkably different from what I expected. The witch, the _Bondwitch_ , had little use for royal blood, unlike her sisters did in times long past. She craves only one commodity, one of sighs and flesh, one of tongue and teeth, one of forbidden things, deeds that would have me cast from my lofty place as Princess and trailed as a common streetwalker around Menenia, shunned by the very people I am trying to save.

I am trying my best for this part of the story not to leave these walls, not to leave my bed, in fact. Yet right now I can’t sleep – unlike the _Bondwitch_ , she’s snoring like a baby and no showing a care in the world, how very appropriate of her grating temperament – and I need some sort of closure.

I’ll burn these pages as soon as I finish writing them. But in the meantime, this is the story of the last week, and how Cornelia, lost _Bondwitch_ of Menenia, managed to drive me madder than war or court intrigue.

May Heaven conserve me.

## I

## Witch in Church on Sunday

 

### On the third day of my contract with the Bondwitch Cornelia, I was met with yet another unexpected development in our partnership.

It was one thing to go on looking for the forgotten Bondwitch of Menenia, and wake her from her slumber in a time of direst need; it was one thing to forge a pact with her, and to provide her with her most unexpected… currency. it was another thing altogether to satisfy all her whims.

Point was, it was Sunday, and I, as ruling Princess of Menenia, had to attend Church for Mass. It was supposed to be a simple matter of leaving the castle for little more than an hour, be back for lunch and spend the time planning new war strategies, smiling at my people from time to time to raise morale and avoid disaster.

Of course, the witch wanted to make it all more complicated.

I had just finished to prepare for Mass, wearing a simple white dress that covered me from head to toe, white shoes with short heels, and a black shawl to underline the war effort. I had tucked my blonde hair under a silver diadem, and looking at me in front of the mirror, I believed I looked fine enough to attend Mass, when the witch entered my field of vision. More like it filled it; the mirror was tall, but the witch was taller.

In her usual fashion, lacking both proper respect for authority and personal boundaries, she put her elbows on my shoulders and rested her chin atop of my head. Her long black hair framed me like a curtain, and her impossibly green eyes dug into mine like two buzzing fireflies.

“I wanna come too.” Her voice, usually so sultry and deep, rang with a childish eagerness that in another moment I might have found endearing.

“A witch in Church,” I answered with the driest tone I could muster, like I was explaining yet again to one of my advisors why the war effort was sucking all our finances. “You’ll probably catch fire.”

“Tch,” the witch curled her lips in distaste, “what is it with witches and fires? It never even bothered any of my sisters, should it bother me?”

“No,” I answered as I took one long look at her form, “but putting on some clothes should.”

The witch cackled, the dangerous light in her eyes growing: fireflies turning into will-o-wisps.

“You worry your people will spend too much time looking at me and too little at you?”

The witch’s hands let go of my shoulders and crossed over my chest, as she pressed her quite, uh, generous bosom against my back. She did that a few times before. It grew stale with time, so I managed not to blush in the mirror.

Not too much.

“Mass it’s not a matter of _looking_ at things, witch.”

She pouted in the mirror.

“Then what? I wanna know!”

Go figure. All those centuries spent inside a sealing crystal obelisk must have done wonders for her boredom; and now it was up to me to satisfy her curiosity.

“Not without proper clothes,” I replied.

“Hey, it’s not my fault all your dresses are too short for me. And too tight around the chest.”

Was that blush on my cheeks? No. Must be the morning light.

“You can come in your armour.”

The witch pursed her lips in thought; then her trademark smirk dawned on her face.

“I could, but it’s a bit, say, _draining_ on a poor old frail Bondwitch like me to conjure an armour. Maybe if you’d gave me some help…”

“I believe yesterday night I did more than it was requested by the terms of our agreement?”

“That tongue-twirl-bite thing was delicious, I can give you that. But I didn’t know there would be _Mass_ today! I wanna know why you all get together in Churches and do your silly human chanting.”

I sighed, then pointed at a pair of white gloves on my desk.

“Witch, fetch me those gloves.”

She pouted, yet obeyed: form her shadow, a tendril of darkness shot forth and coiled around the gloves, bringing them into my hands, before disappearing back into the Bondwitch’ shadow upon the floor. Even after three days, it was a bit disquieting. I put on the gloves, the left, and the right, covering up the burnt scar left from the pact.

“Come _on_ ,” the witch insisted, “I wanna know what’s so special about that! Given _someone_ is keeping me awake more than it’s healthy…”

I flexed my fingers inside the gloves. Good. Three days with the burnt scar and still no pain… then I brought my eyes back to the witch. Showing her off on Sunday might be good for morale. Keep the populace used to her presence; as long as none of them got a clue _how_ the ruling Princess of Menenia actually paid for her help in war effort, they could come to accept Cornelia's presence. After almost two centuries, the return of a witch in Menenia was a novel sight.

Yet again, this might be a feasible strategy if the witch had displayed a more… _collaborative_ personality.

Thus, no point in bringing her outside just yet.

“No, witch. You shall remain in this room and wait for my return.”

Cornelia opened her mouth to reply, but it was time for a smirk of my own.

“This is my final word, witch. No way for you to change it.”

-

A couple minutes later, I found myself standing in front of the Church’ steps, after a quick change of clothes, and putting another, thicker shawl to cover my neck.

Waiting to enter the Church, a tall man, his long white beard carefully groomed, walked up to me; I always wondered how Andronicus could draw from seemingly endless reserves of energy when he was pushing eighty. Must have had something to do with his old profession. He addressed me with a surprised look that grew into a scowl at the sight of who was accompanying me.

“Your _Majesty_ ,” he said, in the tone I was used to hear when he scowled at me for bad marks on a test, “times are trying, for sure, and they get us used to unusual sights. Yet… why is she here?”

With a smile that threatened to split her admittedly pretty head in two, the Bondwitch stood next to me, looking at her fingers.

“Nice to see you too, Pops. It must have something to do with my skills. For instan-”

“Enough,” I stopped the two of them, holding up a hand. Andronicus, though he knew me ever since I was a baby, would not react with favour to more details of my partnership with her.

“Witch, shut up or I’ll revoke your hard-earned privilege to attend Mass.”

Cornelia complied, though she muttered something awfully close to _hard-earned indeed_.

Andronicus’ blue eyes shone like arrowheads.

“As for you, Andronicus, please be a gracious host. Bondwitch Cornelia has proven time and time again she earned our trust. She has a special permit to attend Mass with the rest of us, as she _promised_ to behave.”

Andronicus and the witch held a staring contest for a couple moments. They would probably still be at it for the entire day, so I sighed and moved towards the entrance.

“Come on, you two. The first bell has rung already.”

I didn’t stop to watch them follow me, and I entered the Church. I remembered it rich with portraits and statues, light coming in from stained-glass tall windows, a symphony of radiance and colour that seemingly incarnated divine into our lives; like many other things, eaten by the gorgon mouth of war.

Even know, devoid of anything gold or marble, the cathedral of Menenia managed to be impressive, if only because its imposing architecture managed to shine through better; unbidden, my left hand curled into a fist, hoping for the grasp of a larger one, a stronger one. When I was little, the first few times I entered Church there was always Father’s hand to grip onto: looking up, from the corridor to the altar to the tall windows and columns to the painted dome, I used to feel so small and frail, and urged for Father’s comfort.

Right then, fifteen years later, as ruling Princess, I didn’t feel any less small and frail. Would Father be proud of me?

Still. I had accomplished much, managed to stall the siege for the last few days. Mayb-

“Whoa! This place is _huge_!”

Behind me, Cornelia’s voice brought me back to present, and to the sight of seated attendees turning to look at the two of us; a few smiled and bowed their head, but most of their eyes were glued to the witch.

“We are supposed to keep our voices _low_ in Church!”

“Oh.” The witch inched closer to my ear, and whispered: “Whoa, this place is _huge_!”

“Glad you noticed. Follow me, now.”

I led her to the right, towards the stair that gave on the royal balcony; people followed us with their gazes, though already many were turning back to the altar. The sound of organ signalled the start of Mass; it would be a longer hour than the usual with the witch at my side, but I would manage.

“Hey,” whispered the witch, “why is there only one chair here?” It had been so since Father’s passing, but I had not intention to share this with the Bondwitch.

“Because there’s one Princess, that’s why.”

“Tch.”

The Bondwitch snapped her fingers, and black tendrils knotted beneath her, forming a passable chair; she sat down, and patted the arms.

“Comfy.”

The organ music died down, followed by the first chant. I followed in tow, eyeing as the witch watched me with a raised eyebrow. I paid little mind to her. The fact someone like Cornelia managed to enter Church without going up in fire and brimstone was already a success. I followed the other voices for a while, as the priest started the liturgy. Back when I was a child, coming to Mass had always been a chore, sitting and doing nothing while people did alien things around me; even Father, usually so warm, kept a stony look during Mass, and I came to hate it not little, even if I knew afterwards I would get ice cream.

With Father gone and the crown now upon my brow, coming to Mass turned instead into an occasion to swam through memories, and try, if I really really tried, to feel Father’s comforting hand upon my shoulders once again.

Yes, if I tried… I… thought I could feel…

“Princess, I’m bored.”

… the Bondwitch’s hand upon my shoulder. I didn’t even look at her, keeping my gaze glued to the crowd and to the priest giving his lecture.

“Princess? Hey, look at me!”

“You’re disturbing Mass, witch. Do you wish for me to ban you from these holy grounds?”

“Touchy, touchy. Calm down, little mouse.”

I _hate_ it when she calls me little mouse.

“Keep quiet and try to enjoy the silence, witch.”

She scoffed.

“I don’t know what to do with silence, Princess. Had way too much of that.”

A flash of the Bondwitch’s prison appeared in front of my eyes, the large black obelisk, hidden in the crypt, deep inside Menenia’s dungeons. Trapped there for who knows how many decades…

Still.

“No reason for you to ruin it for others.”

A few moments of silence. Good maybe she underst-

“Still bored.”

“Listen, keep quiet and I’ll get you ice cream.”

I blinked, not even noticing the expression upon the witch’s face.

“What’s _eece-crim_?”

“Uh, nothing. Forget I said anything.”

The witch allowed me silence, and I held my hands together, like I was praying. But amidst the sound of people voicing their hopes and dreams, and trying to gather courage for the war pressing against our very gates, I only could think about the fact I used the same words Father used with me.

“Princess… uh…” the witch’s face seemed blurry, for some reason. “I’ll keep quiet,” she said at last. She retracted her knees on the chair and stood there, silent.

I was left to my thoughts for the time necessary for me to rein them in.

Father was gone, and there was no way to change it, not even with one, two, or all of the witches of Menenia. All I could do was to try and keep both the crown and the head that bore it. At least the witch had proven herself a strong ally, notwithstanding her indecent way of gathering power.

I scratched my neck, feeling the hickeys the witch gave me, before coming to Church of all places. Before the next assault, I would have to lay with her again; a most unusual way to furnish energy to her magic, one that would spell my end if notice of it ever went past my bedroom.

Sighing, I stood up for the final liturgy before the Mass was over. Next to me, both the Bondwitch and her conjured seat were gone. My mouth curled in disappointment, but couldn’t go chasing her during the final liturgy. Hoping she wouldn’t do anything too scandalous, I kept on repeating the words, trying to find some solace in them.

A hand tapped my shoulder.

“Princess, you must see this.”

“Not now witch.”

She pouted, and crossed her arms over her armour, but accepted my answer. Thank Heaven for little miracles: I had the time to recite the last words in peace.

“What about now,” she asked as the liturgy died down.

“Now it’s time for the Communion, witch.”

She perked up.

“Oh! What’s Communion? It’s something like those camn-nons from the other day?”

“Those are called _cannons_ , and no, it’s nothing like that. Wait here, I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Hey!” She grabbed the hem of my shirt, “I wanna come too!”

She looked at me with those impossibly green eyes of hers, and once again I saw a glint of that… naivete that from time to time shone through. Rare, and quick in passing, but it was there, hidden behind all the smug grins and the sexual bravado.

I… found myself speaking to her once again the way Father did with me. This time, though, I managed to talk through the knot in my chest.

 _You cannot. Because you’re a child, and Communion is not a thing children do_.

“You cannot. Because you are a witch, and Communion is not a thing witches do. That’s final.”

I swatted the witch’s hand away and walked downstairs, to follow the double line of people; I tried to focus more on the people around me, and chase the Bondwitch’s hurt face away. Andronicus, standing a few steps away from me, acknowledged me with a nod.

Why did she care so much, anyway? Not like she was anything more than a weapon, to Menenia and to me. Nothing more than a tool. A tool to… to avoid more women wearing black headscarves to Mass, like I saw standing in the line in front of me, and all around, sitting on the planks, looking like black tulips at the road’s edge. A tool to avoid more fathers and brothers bent with their hands pushed together, praying for an end to this war.

I took the offer in my mouth and came back to balcony. It tasted unusually bitter.

The Bondwitch was looking at me from above the balcony, her arms crossed against her armoured chest. Andronicus was looking at me, but I focused on holding her gaze until I had to turn right to take the stairs.

After that, she didn’t say anything else, and I could enjoy the final prayers and rites; with a few last words, I fell back on the chair, as the Church emptied and people’s chatter filled up the air. More subdued than I remembered.

“Now you can.”

“What,” the Bondwitch asked.

“You can tell me what you were talking about before.”

She rolled her eyes.

“At long last, Princess manages to grace me with audience.”

The witch left my side to one corner of the balcony, covered with wooden planks, old tapestry and candleholders; she started to remove them, with the usual care she put into things… which meant I had to cover my ears with all the racket she ended up doing.

“Witch!”

“It’s almost over, calm down…”

She moved away the last few wooden planks, and pointed at the wall; the dirty wall, mould and dust covering the usually shining marble of the Church. Even then, the bas-relief was clear.

I stepped closer, and touched it; my fingers left clear marks upon the dust.

“This…”

“Why am I not in this,” the Bondwitch pouted.

The bas-relief was old, its surface filled with those bubbles and scratches marble shows when it’s ancient: it displayed seven women in a half-circle, their hands pointing at a man with a tall crown, in the centre, with a knife in his left hand, and a cup in his right.

Seven witches of Menenia.

“I’m not sure,” I tried to explain after a few more moments, “I didn’t study the other witches’ lore so profoundly when I was trying to find you.” No point in finding what was already gone.

Next to me, Cornelia, the one Bondwitch, older than I was of thousands of years, stood as lost as a child in the storm. It was my turn to place my hand upon her shoulder.

With a bit of strain, given how taller she was than me.

“Listen, witch. You did good in discovering this bas-relief. I’ll make sure the deacon cleans it for next Mass.” People could get better used to the idea of a witch, this way.

“You’ll do that?”

“Royalty has but one word, witch.”

She lifted an eyebrow.

“This, I doubt… but thank you, little mouse.” And at long last, her trademark grin climbed back upon her mouth. I hadn't miss it. “I’ll let you be on top tonight.”

Why was it so warm in Church? Marble was supposed to keep air fresh.

“I… this is not the kind of thing to talk about in a Church, witch!”

After that, I took her out. It wasn’t… it just wasn’t right to keep a witch in Church. Even less so one so prone to crass words.

As we exited, most people had already returned to their homes, and the square in front of the Church was clear. I looked for Andronicus, but he seemed to be gone too. No matter. I would speak with him at the next war council; afternoon wasn’t a long time away.

Speaking of which… I turned my head towards the west, and there, beyond the first, second and last bastion of walls, beyond the crumbled towers and the fields covered with scorch marks where a cannonball exploded, to the plain, where inside tents, protected by fences and moots, the siegeing army of the Duke loomed over Menenia like an incoming tide.

It was so small, this kingdom of mine. So little to protect, and yet so much.

“I've decided Mass is boring,” the Bondwitch declared, turning me back to present. “No idea why you humans do it.”

I had a brief flash of all those black-clad widows, sprouting like tulips from the Church’s floor.

“Guess some things are beyond a witch’s grasp.”

The Bondwitch shrugged, then showed her best smile.

“Now can I have this _eece-crim_?”

 


	2. Witch Plotting on Monday

##  Thanks to the witch’s efforts (and my own, in the bedroom, charging her up), we were to enjoy a couple days of peace; it would be short-lived, while the enemy at the gates decided whether to attack again and risk a reckoning with Cornelia, or just do the smart thing and go back home. Not that I could trust the Duke to do the smart thing; and so I had been looking at the war map since the first rays of dawn, while the Bondwitch, my supposed wonder weapon and ultimate line of defence of Menenia, lay asleep in the bed.

I lifted my head from the map and looked at the royal bed, where Cornelia slept in a bundle of white sheets. Naked, as usual. At least this time the sheets covered her admittedly ample breasts; such a stark contrast with her jet-black hair, spreading around her head like some odd corolla of an exotic flower.

Hm.

I bit my lip and went back to the map. I was getting sidelined with useless thoughts, while I should be diverting my mind to try and find a way to get out of this impasse. It was a bit like walking on thin ice: I could feel all the tiny cracks around me, getting wider and wider as time grew short. The castle, imposing and protected by tall walls, dominated the centre of the map: it looked so safe and easy to defend, but the events of the last few weeks proved it was anything but. The walls were strong enough to shrug off a few shots here and there, but not the new Rhutenian cannons the Duke came equipped with. And even without those, the Duke’s army was well-fed (thanks to the razing of _my_ fields) and well-prepared for war, while I sat upon two centuries of complacency.

Sometimes I wondered how my life would have been different if I had been born in a warless time. If Father hadn’t died so soon. Would I have enjoyed mindless bliss, one day after the other, if my life was nothing but picking flowers from the gardens, reading sappy literature and entertaining the populace with my new piano composition?

Sighing, I couldn’t deny myself that even though the picture I painted looked pretty, probably not. I would have found ways to lament my condition even in such a state; gripping my fists, I scowled at the map once again. There must be a way. To the south-west of the castle, the red crescent of tin soldiers put on the map symbolized the Duke’s forces. Five thousand between footsoldiers and cavalry of his personal _armata_ , and then about ten thousand mercenary _condottieri,_ though those were less of a concern. The _condottieri_ wouldn’t put their duty before their life, simply because they had none. The Duke’s own veterans, though, would follow him right in the bowels of hell… and would prove a larger problem.

Yesterday was Sunday, and it had been the right thing to let people have their rest; but night had led to a crispy, clear morning, not a cloud in sight, the perfect chance for an assault. If the Duke managed to wrestle his _condottieri_ together and decided to go on all-out attack, the cold in the pit of my stomach told me that not even the Bondwitch would be able to withstand that attack.

What more could I do? Inside the fortress’ perimeter, hundreds of silver-blue tin soldiers were scattered about like grains. I had tried times and time again to see how forces could interact, and time and time again, our defences would provide insufficient. I twiddled the marker I used for the Bondwitch. No use in-

“Why am I so black?”

The witch’s steps were so silent it was annoying. This wasn’t the first time she sneaked up on me like a cat. Nor was the first time she propped her head upon mine, looking down at the map, nor was the first time her hands wandered all around my shoulders and neck. It was distracting.

“Witch. Good morning to you too.”

“You’re always so cold,” she retorted, then yawned. “Thanks for yesterday night, by the way. What was it that gave you so much energy? Was it because we went to church?”

Distracting and other things.

“You’re black because this is a black queen from chess pieces,” I said, bringing our conversation back towards safe tracks, “the best way to depict you in the field I could find.”

The witch took the piece and looked at it in the thin light of morning.

“Tch. What’s _tchess_?”

“Chess. A strategy game.”

“Hm,” she answered putting the chess queen back onto the map, “I see you have been playing.”

“This is not chess and it’s not a game.”

“And here I wondered what kept you up all this time.” Her fingers grazed against my neck. “It wasn’t my fault, was it?”

I swatted her hand away. 

“You only fault is not taking this seriously.”

She scoffed.

“ _Seriously_. Do you take seriously the wars between anthills, Princess?”

To that, I couldn’t answer. There were times, like yesterday in church, when the Bondwitch behaved much like a child. Other times, she showed exactly how many years she had seen, under the pretty facade of her alabaster skin.

“Are my eyes so pretty,” she asked after a moment, her trademark grin dawning again on her lips. “Because you sure do seem like looking at me.”

“I was merely thinking, witch.”

“You seem to like it a whole lot.”

“Witch.”

She huffed and detached from me; I couldn’t say I missed the weight of her breasts against my back, or the warmth of her arms around my shoulders. I won’t.

The Bondwitch snapped her fingers, and black tendrils sprouted from her shadow, coiling beneath her to form a chair; she slumped into it and drew a sigh.

“So what’s the plan for today? Am I going to blast any more bad guys?”

“That’s precisely the problem, witch. I am not privy to the Duke’s mind, but if I were in his shoes, he will either attack as soon as possible or withdraw.”

She blinked.

“Does that mean I’ll get to… _satisfy_ the contract early?”

The way _satisfy_ rolled out of her mouth I didn’t like, but I conceded:

“If the Duke’s forces are routed and we find a way to secure peace for the foreseeable future, then… yes.”

She pumped her fists up.

“Great! What are we waiting for? Let’s blast those cowards away!”

“Patience, witch. We can’t risk an all-out assault. The Duke’s forces number three times ours, and only a tiny part are in fighting condition. And there’s also… other matters.” I lifted a finger and touched the spot, right above the right breast, where the Bondwitch became acquainted with modern technology in the form of an arquebus’ bullet, scantily two days ago. “If the Duke’s ready and is prepared for a sortie, you won’t get away with just one hole in your armour.”

The witch’s gaze run from the tip of my finger toward my hand, arm, shoulder, to climb up towards my neck and fix in my own: for a moment, I seemed to get a glimpse of something else other than sarcasm or lust in those impossibly green eyes of hers.

“Ooh, little mouse, are you getting worried about me?”

I must have imagined it.

Sighing, I withdrew my finger.

“I am merely stating facts, witch. You can’t build an armour strong enough for bullets, you are not getting out of here.”

“Bummer,” she commented, letting her head fall upon the map. She played with the chess queen, disgust curling her lips. “I still don’t like it. It’s black, not flashy at all. It’s like I’m almost invisible.”

I blinked.

“Witch.”

“I mean, not that I wanted a glow-in-the-dark piece or something like that, but it woul-”

“Witch. Shut up. Repeat what you said earlier.”

A pause.

“Either I shut up or I talk, little mouse. Make up your mind.”

She will be the death of me.

“You said… you said you’re almost invisible, right?”

“Yeah. You could have-”

Yes. 

Yes. I felt a grin, the first true grin since the time, two days before, I managed to summon the witch, back when I thought that simple act would dispel all our problems. This… if this plans worked… it wouldn’t dispel our problems, but…

“Witch,” I said, standing up from the chair. “Get dressed. We have a war council in ten minutes.”

-

Not that far from the room where Princess Alba and Cornelia the Bondwitch were dressing (the Bondwitch once again lamenting how tight around the chest all of the Princess’ clothes were), in the central tent of his camp, his Majesty and Eminence Guido Paolo Amilcare Maria Giuseppe Armando Visconti, commander of the powerful armies of Media Landa, Duke d’Altroquando, was wishing for the mirror to break in front of him, glass to cut his throat, and bring him out of his misery.

War he could withstand. He could withstand famine, for he lived through it in his youth, and he could withstand poverty and doom and death.

He could even withstand the sudden appearance of an _eighth_ witch in Menenia, when all tales and legends, as well as inside information, always told him that only seven had ever appeared to defend this miserable dot, this pathetic excuse for a kingdom, this coven of merchants and cowards. 

All this he could withstand.

But not those fucking _condottieri_. 

The Duke threw his hands into water, washing his face before the fateful encounter. Blinking away water, he looked into his own black eyes, the squared, shaved face, his dark hair cut short, leaning towards the glass until he touched it with his forehead.

_Tink._

“I can do this,” he whispered to himself. This was easy. He had done this so many other times. The most ancient and noble house of Visconti had dealt with much bigger issues. And he _would_ go down in history as the first man to set foot in Menenia uninvited. Witch or now witch.

And a required step was to calm down his _condottieri_.

He dried his face, took a few more books and notes from his desk and pushed away the veil separating his private quarters from the war ‘room’. He remembered the rich furniture and tall windows of the actual war room in Media Landa, while this was barely a desk around which four of his Captains and the _condottieri_ commanders waited for him.

His best smile straining his mouth, he addressed his men.

“An eventful morning shines upon ourselves, my captains! Soon our armies will trod on Menenian’s roads, where milk and honey flow!”

Four men nodded, the low _chink chink_ from their mail distinct in the silence of morning, while the other three, all covered in full armour, exchanged a look. One of them spit on the ground.

“Yeah, likely that, _Duke_ ,” he said, mouthing the word as if it was a particularly bitter wad of tobacco. The tallest of the three _condottieri_ , it looked like Ferrante had been appointed the leader of their small rebellion. “Ah don’t care what ever nice words you wrote in your tend tonight. Give us our due. We’re out.”

“Why, my friend,” the Duke said as he unfurled the war map on the table, starting to position small tin soldiers and banners on the field, “are you already tired with gold?”

“We need hands to enjoy gold,” the farthest _condottiere_ , Ugolo, mouthed. Unlike his friend, he still had all his teeth, as yellow as they were. “We need our head attached to our shoulders. You have all seen what that damn wench did to your cannons!” He opened his arms. “Blast! She crushed them like paper!”

“This might be so, my good friend Ugolo,” the Duke rebutted, finishing to dispose the soldiers upon the map, “but I am confident I have found a way to dispose of this witch just as time and war disposed us of the other seven.”

“Yeah, about that,” Ferrante interjected, “what tells us that there’s no more witches? What tells u-”

“I do,” the Duke interrupted, his voice low. “I do, and logic. If there were more witches, the Princess would have dispatched them already. Our assault two days ago had already breached the inner walls. We were about to dine in Menenia, knee-high in gold.” He paused, letting the image do its magic on the minds of the _condottieri_. “Could she have managed to make another pact with another witch? No.”

“How can you be so sure,” the third _condottiere_ asked. He was the youngest, and the Duke knew, the most dangerous. He seldom spoke, and a glint in his eyes always spoke of things beyond riches and glory. In battle he led his men to charge, and appointed black bands over his banners. The Duke wouldn’t have wanted him in his campaign, and almost managed to do so, if the other two hadn’t found out he was nearby when they were planning their attack on Menenia. As a way to strengthen their forces. But in the clear eyes of Black-Banner Giovanni, the Duke only saw insurance for the other _condottieri_ , and a greater worry than any witch.

“We are here still here having a talk, gentlemen,” the Duke explained in a dull tone, like Giovanni had asked how the sky was blue or water was wet. “I know how this Princess thinks. Nothing to her is more precious than her kingdom. Nothing would make her happier than sending us all back to Media Landa, one broken piece at the time. No. I’m confident the witch we are dealing with is but an unfortunate accident. An aberration, most likely kept in reserve for times such as this. The last one.” 

“Still a formidable opponent,” Giovanni retorted. “And my men won’t fight which cannot be fought. My demand is to pay us for our present services, and we can deem this campaign over. Peacefully.” Giovanni’ smile was a showing of teeth.

“Yeah,” Ferrante followed, whose position as a leader must have been less solid than he hoped for, “yeah, just what he said. _And_ I want to be paid in _gold_ , nothing of this paper you print your money into.” He spit to the floor once again. “Paper money is only good for Ionian eunuchs and spineless Serenissima merchants.” 

Inwardly, the Duke sighed. Smart Giovanni. Let Ferrante pose as a leader. Make a demand. Let Ferrante one-up that demand as a way to show he’s in charge.

Half of his frustrations in dealing with _condottieri_ came from that man. Whenever this campaign was over, he’d like to have a nice exchange with him in private.

“I _will_ pay you in gold. One gold talent for each of your men, because Menenia is filled with it to the brim. For what reason should its witch-built walls be there to obscure the moon and stars, if not to protect untold riches? But I can do that only if you can help me take the castle. And about that,” he said, stopping the coming retort from Ferrante, “I came to show you this.” He pointed at the map. It was an old thing, half-eaten and covered with black spots; small red circles dotted the inner and outer rim of walls. A sprinkle of red spots also appeared inside the castle’s perimeter. Giovanni’s eyes opened in surprise, then comprehension.

To the others, he would have to explain it.

-

As per my instructions, the war room’s windows had been covered, and only the slightest amount of light filtered through, tracing dust and the outline of my standing form and the witch’s. In front of us, Alfiere and Andronicus waited, seated in front of the large wooden table.

“I spoke with the witch before summoning you here,” I explained them, pointing at Cornelia, standing next to me with a bored expression (not that I could see her: polite guess) “about her skills and magical glamours. It seems she’s regrettably incapable of turning things truly invisible.”

“That was Galata,” the witch interrupted me. In the darkness, her clear, low voice seemed even more striking than usual. Longing for her lost sister? “Nobody wanted to play hide and seek with her after the first time. Kitchens and pantries were also wary of her.”

The second witch of Menenia. A part of me was tempted to stop my demonstration right there and ask Cornelia what more she could tell me of her long-lost sister. But the part of me that had been raised to rule a kingdom pushed forward.

“Yes. Thank you witch. Thus, this is a power she lacks. Yet…”

The witch snapped her fingers. A barely perceptible _whoosh_ and our forms and hers were obscured, as if dripped in the darkest of inks. It reminded me of the way the surface of the obelisk where the Bondwitch used to lie dormant rippled and moved as I summoned her. Was it just last week? It seemed such a longer time.

Little by little, every speck of light was extinguished. I knew what was happening: the witch’s shadowy arms were covering each hole and point from where sunlight might creep. I had entertained the thought of letting her cover the entire room, but it would probably had required an extensive draining of her magical reserve, and I already sported enough hickeys on my neck… other than in other, more intimate places.

So, no.

As we decided, we started to move around the room.

“The witch can cover enough places to dull out light thanks to her power. In a dark night, little can be done to see it.”

“Yet you can be spotted by sound,” Alfiere noticed. “You are standing next to the column, Princess. As for the Witch, she’s to your left…” he paused, then: “… two steps to the left.”

“Damn,” the witch’s whispered, “he’s good.”

I nodded, though she couldn’t see me.

“As much as your skills don’t go unappreciated, Captain,” I addressed Alfiere, “no sentinel, no matter how trained, shares them. Even more so that the Duke’s camp is filled with uncertainty and fear.”

I let silence fill the room for a moment. The witch would later say I was being theatrical, but such is politics.

“We will break the siege by breaking the Duke.”

-

The Duke leaned forward, pointing at the red dots on the map. They looked fresher than the rest of the half-faded ink.

“Old King Alexios might have been short-lived,” he explained, “but he was no fool. Twenty years ago, for a couple months, there were no maps produced of Menenia. He used all of his influence to have most of the old map destroyed, and new ones produced and distributed. Look here,” he pointed at a new Menenia map, next to the old one. “See how the ramparts are different? See how the designs of the walls is slightly lower? The old King wanted to protect the faults in Menenia’s walls.”

“But those are the points we already attacked,” Giovanni retorted, quick-witted as always. “Are you merely stating past strategy, Duke?”

“None of the sort. Patience is still a virtue, my friend.”

“So is brevity.”

“Look at these red dots: they are not merely weak points in the walls. These are the locations of passages in and out of Menenia.”

The Duke stopped, letting silence fill the tent. A smile dawned on his lips, and for once it extended to his eyes.

-

It was a rare sight for Andronicus to be happy, but that was the second time – the first one when I released the witch – I saw him with so sour an expression.

“No.”

“What part of the plan doesn’t strike you as sound, Keeper of the Key,” I asked him, addressing him by his title.

“Each and every part. The part where you cover yourself with this witch’s magic, for one. The part where you leave the castle at night and scurry as a pair of thieves. The part where you set your life on danger for the umpteenth time, Princess!”

“This is not a time for assessing risks, Andronicus. This is a time for action, decisive action. The Duke’s army is standing on a cliff: either we push it towards retreat or oblivion, it will roll back and crush us all.”

“Uhm, you all,” the witch pointed out, looking at her extended fingers. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Alfiere conceded, looking down at the map on the war room’s table, breathing through his nose. “It’s a feasible plan.”

“What? I demand…” Andronicus was about to add more to his protest, but Alfiere raised a hand to touch his shoulder.

“Your worries are sound, my friend. Yet, it seems only our Princess can dutifully control the witch. It’s her role… nay, I believe it is her duty, to guide the witch to strike at the enemy.”

I nodded. Andronicus’ beard seemed about to spontaneously combust, so I quickly added:

“We only have a short time, Andronicus. As much as I am confident in the witch’s power” though I wasn’t as confident in my own stamina reserves, were she require even more than I was giving her “we have relied too much on witches to protect us, for too long. It’s as you said it: let us protect Menenia with our own strength.”

Andronicus held my gaze for a long time. At last though, he looked away, mouthing some obscenity in what sounded like Latin.

The witch snickered. Whether it was because she liked Andronicus lost, or she understood his words, I couldn’t say. Never been that good at Latin.

“Tomorrow night is the new moon. We have one full day to prepare. I expect you, Captain, to give us your best.”

Alfiere nodded, a smile already curling his lips.

“As for you, Andronicus, I didn’t call you here just to berate you.”

“You didn’t? And here I thought this was turning into a habit.”

The witch snickered again. She elbowed me.

“You know, when he’s not so stuck up Pops here’s no half-bad.”

Andronicus thanked her with another of his venomous glares. I ignored both of them.

“The witch has suffered a wound during the first assault. Her armour cannot stop bullets.”

Andronicus inched closer to the witch, passing his eyes over her.

“Can’t she just make it thicker?”

“That would require too much of her… reserves,” I explained. I wouldn’t blush. Not in front of them.

I wouldn’t. Blush.

“Is everything alright, little mouse? You seem…”

“Shut your mouth, witch. What I am saying, is: I want you to help her better her armour’s structure, so that she can withstand an assault, at least at distance.”

Andronicus, now a spark of scientific interest in his eyes, eyed the witch like it was a doll he had to break and rebuild.

For the first time, the witch seemed uneasy under his gaze.

“I will see what I can do. I am expecting the witch’s full collaboration. Of course.”

The witch looked at me. Was that pleading in her eyes? It might have as well be, and another time I might have had pity of her, but she had so _insisted_ in giving me yet another hickey before this meeting, I found my reserve of mercy lamentably short.

“Of course,” I admitted.

-

Yet again not far from where this scene was taking place, the Duke d’Altroquando sat down at the table, looking at his old map, taking more notes. All people in the room had left, save for Black-banner Giovanni.

“Is this an exercise to see how much you can stand up, Giovanni,” he asked, not lifting his head from the notes, “or do you have an actual question for me, _condottiere_?”

“How perceptive of your Majesty. Indeed I have: a request, of sort.”

“A request. Odd for you to ask it through your own lips.”

“I wish to come with you.”

This time, the Duke lifted his head.

This was no good. Black-banner Giovanni, to expose himself so much?

“I didn’t think you had so much adventurous spirit in yourself.”

“War demands a man to think in new ways.”

“So true. And why should I be so accustomed to think in a new way and change my plan to include you in the assault?”

Again that smile. The same smile that had sacked cities and routed armies. The Duke felt like treading not even on ice, but razor-sharp glass.

“Save money. Allow me to take part in the assault and I will convince Ferrante and Ugolo’s men to accept paper money. I can’t guarantee for the _condottieri_ themselves, of course.”

“Of course.”

It was a tempting offer. The less gold he could give these rats… so that was the reason he had Ferrante make that request before.

“I can agree to that, on one condition.”

“Let’s hear this condition.”

“Before the assault, you and Ferrante are going to exchange treasuries. I’m sure if you are going to convince him to accept paper, your tongue would be skilled enough for this meagre task.” 

Black-banner Giovanni stood still, thinking. The Duke saw ghosts passing behind those clear eyes. They were both playing a dangerous game, but the only bind mercenaries know is gold, and even if that might not be true for Giovanni himself, to his men it was.

“Very well. I will speak with my friend.” A pause. “Tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night. I suggest you take your preparations quickly.”

“Why, rest assured I will, Duke. May God helps us in our endeavour.”

The Duke nodded, more to himself than him. 

Witch or no witch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are with the new chapter! For those of you interested in reasing ahead, on www.alchemicwriting.com we'have alread published the third one!  
> See you on Wednesday and have a nice weekend!


	3. Witch Training on Tuesday

#  I exited the priest’s room feeling a little better; both at the thought of putting my crazy plan into action, and that the success of that plan relied upon the Bondwitch’ shoulders. The witch had been waiting for me as I left the room. 

Though she’d entered Church once already, she didn’t seem to have learned much in the manner of respect: she sat with her legs and arms wide apart, looking up at the ceiling, when the noise of my steps called her attention.

“Feeling better, are we, little mouse?”

“Keep your voice _down_ ,” I admonished her, in what was quickly turning into a habit.

“Why? It’s only the two of us here.”

“It’s a matter of respect, witch. Do as I say.”

She sighed.

“Getting crankier and crankier. I _know_ what would make you feel a bit more relaxed, though.”

Oh, please not this again.

“Witch, it’s not like I am going to give you anything more than required to fuel your powers.”

“It’s just I have been feeling a bit under the weather…”

“Then push through. If everything goes well, I shall release you tomorrow. Isn’t that what you wish for?”

Silence.

The Bondwitch was looking at the ceiling again, a crease upon her brow.

“It’s what the contract entails,” the Bondwitch answered. I felt my right hand, where the Pact had burned my flesh, twitch. I had managed to cover it with gloves and by keeping it hidden from all my advisors, even Alfiere and Andronicus. I hoped that, when the Pact would be released, it would come back to be healthy… as long as the Bondwitch hadn’t lied to me.

She didn’t say anything else, though; silent, she left her seat and walked towards the upper balcony, from where we attended Mass only a couple days before. The way she walked, drawing no sound from the marble floor and steps even as covered in heavy armour as she was, reminded me of the way I too had walked up until a couple months ago, when I was still looking for answer after Father’s death: stiff shoulders, still strong but bearing the weight of uncertainty and doubt. One of those answers, a whisper of legend and a hint of myth, would one day lead me to discover the secret behind the Vault of Witches and Cornelia herself.

Why was the Bondwitch so doubtful though? Was she afraid? Yet she crushed cannons and muskets like they were nothing. So what…

I reached the upper balcony and found out the answer when I saw Cornelia standing in front of the bas-relief she had found. It was still covered with dust and still dirty, but she lied her fingers upon it as if upon the finest of gold. She traced the profiles of the Seven Witches, and the crease upon her brow had furled into a full-blown scowl.

I felt like I had to say something. Not that I’d know why. I just felt like saying something, words chocking at the bottom of my throat, scraping for exit.

“I… uh.” Not a bad start. “I’m glad you managed to met them, even if only in this form,” I said. It was supposed to be a nice thing to say.

The witch looked at me, and once again I felt fixed by those green eyes, nailed to the floor.

“I did meet them,” she whispered. “I met all of them. What I don’t understand is why…”

I thought back to what I found inside the Vault of Witches, and how the only obelisk still intact was the hidden black one, the one inside which Cornelia slept. A thought coiled itself around my thoughts, sticky and oliy.

“… witch. The last time you were summoned…”

“… centuries ago. I still don’t get your new calendar, but by then your tiny Kingdom was much larger.”

“… were you sisters…” 

“I never met them since they built the obelisk for me to rest in.”

Something broke inside me. True, the witch was nothing but a weapon for war, nothing but a tool to push back the Duke’s armies, and yet… yet, I realized I woke her up from a place of resting, not of oblivion. And the way she came back to brush with her fingers against the profiles of the Seven Witches spoke volumes.

A desire took over my movements; I must have been possessed for a moment by folly, and I had even just finished having the priest blessing me for tonight’s mission. And yet, as if pushed by some invisible bond, I felt my libs lift and curve around the Bondwitch’s frame. I would have liked to hug her by the shoulders, but all I managed was to hug her torso. She just was that taller than me: and yet, for a moment, I felt a shiver of gratitude coursing through the witch’s frame. For a moment, she felt so much more exposed and frail than the wild, vengeful creature that every night demanded her tribute from my body.

Then the witch lifted her head and patted me on the back.

“Getting frisky in the Church, little mouse? This is not the place for such games.”

I sighed. Would I ever learn?

“A show of affection and comprehension is not a game.”

I stepped back, though. Giving her back her space. Good. Nice. Air felt fresher now. 

“Though it seems hard for you to comprehend, witch.” I turned and stepped down from the balcony. I waited for the witch to come after me, but when I tossed her a glance, she was still standing in front of the bas-relief.

“Remember your meeting with Andronicus, witch.”

“How can I forget what you repeat twelve thousand times per day,” she quipped, though it seemed her tongue lacked her usual bite.

That expression… had somehow came out wrong.

Blushing, I signed myself before exiting Church. Let the witch have her respite, and let her be far from my thoughts. At least for a while.

-

Outside Menenia, while Cornelia the Bondwitch was busy looking at the bas-relief depicting her long-lost sisters and Princess Alba left Church for her meeting with Alfiere, the Duke had set a meeting of his own in his tent. Ugolo, the oldest of the three mercenary _condottieri_ , looked at him with real displeasure both from his natural eye and from his glass one. 

“What is the meaning of this, Duke?”

“Ugolo, my old friend,” the Duke answered him, once again displaying his best smile. “Rest assured everything is clear and behind each deed lies an honest intention.”

Ugolo, who wasn’t a stupid man, scrunched up his nose.

“Save me the political garbage, Duke. I heard Black-banner Giovanni wants to come with you to your mad nocturnal expedition to the castle. And that he exchanged treasury with Ferrante. What does this mean?”

“Why Ugolo, your own company buys insurance from time to time, doesn’t it? This is just Giovanni’s insurance, as well as Ferrante’s own.”

“I don’t like it.”

“So do many other things we have to accept in life.”

“I… I won’t accept this. The deal is off.”

The Duke exhaled through his nostrils, and opened his arms in a show of comprehension. Ugolo was little different from the throngs of noblemen always trying to disgrace him back in Media Landa: if anything, he was a little uglier, and a little less greedy.

“I don’t understand, Ugolo, my friend. I think I was making you a favour: it’s now my turn to act surprised.”

The mercenary blinked.

“Ugolo, my friend, maybe I expressed myself badly. Maybe it was the wind carried the wrong words to you. Maybe this and maybe something else, but please think of it this way: tonight, Ferrante and Giovanni will join me to the assault. Now, I’m positive their captains and underlings will be able to behave, but if I remember well… Giovanni’s army numbers three thousand men, Ferrante’s five thousand. That would make yours…”

“Two thousand men, Duke. All of them well-armed, rested, and ready,” he said through teeth.

“Never doubt it! Not even a moment! But you know how men are, the moment the chief is out of sight, they turn back to their barbarian’s ways… and having exchanged treasuries, it’s highly likely Ferrante and Giovanni’s men might share a sliver of… say… camaraderie? Camaraderie makes men bold. Boldness makes men… dangerous.”

Ugolo, who was starting to understand the implications, blinked, as if to wash away mist from his sight, then hissed, his eyes contracting into pinpricks.

“Dogs…”

“Yes. So when I say you have to stay behind and watch upon the three armies for the time being, you do understand it is because I put the largest part of my trust in you.”

Ugolo balled his left fist, the mail links creaking against each others. He nodded. Once. Twice.

The Duke, inwardly, drew a satisfied breath. One more fish in the net.

“I still would have preferred to be informed on my own.”

“Ah, my mistake. I presumed talking too much might draw attention of prying ears, just as it happened on your case.”

Ugolo might have demanded satisfaction for the veiled insult, but he seemed to worried at the prospects of passing a whole night under the pressure of keeping at bay an army four times his own.

“Very well, Duke. I see we reached an understanding.”

“A splendid understanding.”

Ugolo nodded once again and left the tent.

The Duke sighed and looked down at the map. Those mercenaries would be the death of him… yet he only needed a bit more patience and luck, and he would be the death of them.

-

Alfiere, Captain of Menenia’s High Guard, used to be a close friend and ally of my father. Andronicus had been my tutor, and taught (or tried to) much of what I knew, but Alfiere always was the one deputed to gymnastics. Ever since the threat of war began to loom over Menenia, I had asked him to train me, and ever since I ascended to the throne, he had had no means to refuse.

Now, a young Princess, spending seventeen years of her life in a long-lasting good manners course, isn’t exactly what most teachers would call a promising student in the arts of war. But Alfiere was a patient man.

“Princess, your feet.”

“Oh, sorry.”

A very, very patient man.

I shifted my left foot and right foot to stand at right angles, and repeated the thrust. About two years ago we had discovered the lightest of swords to be too heavy for what Alfiere had deemed more than once a ‘diplomatic physique’. A thin, razor-sharp sword Alfiere copied from designs he once saw in Aquitania became then my choice, and after two years of training I had become quite proficient with it.

Young squires were usually no more a match for me, after all.

Usually, I also never made such stupid mistakes.

“Once again from the start, if you please,” he asked, and I started to repeat the sequence. Parry, block, thrust, block, block, parry thrust.

“There’s something bothering you, Princess.”

It wasn’t a question.

I repeated a few more figures before I stopped, wiped away sweat from my brow and sat down next to him on one of the large white stones decorating the inner gardens. Whatever was left to decorate these days though: gardening money had been long-since converted into iron and black powder. 

“Something is always bothering me, Captain. From war to the way of making gold flow back to Menenia, to the survival of my people’s there’s always something occupying my mind.”

“Pardon my boldness, Princess, if I dare say that a certain young witch also seems to occupy it.”

I wouldn’t blush.

It wasn’t appropriate for a Princess to blush. It just wasn’t right.

Alfiere let our a small chuckle.

“It’s not up to me judge the mind of a Princess. Even less so, the daughter of King Alexios.”

“It’s not… it’s not the witch who occupies my mind.” A flash of impossibly green eyes. That trademark smirk. The way the witch had passed her fingers against the bas-relief. The way each and every night she passed her fingers on… on… 

There. I was blushing.

“You know, Princess. I have travelled far and wide before meeting your father. Did I ever tell you how he and I met?”

I rolled my eyes up.

“You met atop a hill of corpses, in the middle of battle, and saved each other’s life.” It was something I could recite like prayer. 

“I see you keep your good memory. Now, I have seen my fair share of things, and I might have met more people in my life than all those inside this castle and those setting siege to it. When things like that happens, a man starts to develop, say, an intuition for certain things.”

I froze. What was… what was Alfiere suggesting? Was he unto me?

“There was this girl in Kublai. A servant. Never was she seen without her friend. She was always taking care of her friend’s hair, always putting herself on the line, taking the hardest work, the longest hours. Once, her friend was kept from her for a couple weeks. Her eyes were always looking left and right, looking for a place to hold onto.”

I… oh.

“It seems you draw your conclusions too far, Captain,” I answered with the coldest tone I could muster. No notice had to come to Menenian people that their Princess, their rock, the person who loved them all the most in the world… lay each night with a witch.

Even if it was to protect them.

Especially if it was to protect them.

“I have no conclusions,” Alfiere assured me, opening his palms wide and shaking his head. “Conclusions are for men of science, like Andronicus, or ruling, like your Father. The most I can do is share experiences.”

“Maybe another time, Captain.”

“Maybe. I just want you to know that things your advisors might not understand… many of those things, and many more, I have seen already.”

I felt my shoulders tremble, like about to shed the terrible weight they had been carrying all these days. Looking confident and pretty for the populace. Showing them the witch as a mean to an assured victory, a victory that right now relied more upon sheer dumb luck and the witch’s skills than anything else.

But I held them straight. There would be a time for weakness.

I stood up and repeated a stance.

“Another time,” I said once again to Alfiere, and he nodded, acquiescing.

After a time, though, a question rose to my lips, and I was unable to stop it, as much as I wished to.

“What happened to the servant?”

“I never knew. I was only stationed in Kublai for three weeks.”

“Ah. I see.”

-

Few things were more boring to Bondwitch Cornelia than old men and women. Young men, young women, they were interesting. Juicy. Fun. You could be confident there would be _something_ to base a contract upon.

And this Andronicus here… he was old, he was bitter, and her was the farthest thing from _fun_ Cornelia could imagine save from those _camn-nons_.

“For the last time,” he cawed, “would you stay still, wretched witch!”

Cornelia shifted her armour once again. There, that would show him.

Andronicus threw his measuring stick to the ground and pulled his beard. Cornelia hoped it would come off. It _would_ , with the tiniest help on her part, but boring Princess had forbidden her to cause _any_ sort of harm to her people. Bummer bummer.

“Blast it if I care,” the man yelled, embracing one of those long-muzzled things Princess called _muskets_ , and aimed it at her. Wait what?

In a crackle of fire and smoke, the musket shot.

Cornelia covered her armour with her arms, and the bullet hit hard against her left one, though it didn’t penetrate like the first time she came to contact with one of those damned things.

“Are you… have you lost your mind, Pops?”

The old man tossed the musket aside and took a step towards her. For a man his age he was surprisingly agile, or maybe it was the witch who was still a bit shocked by his deed, and barely flinched when the man put his dirty old wrinkly fingers all over her breastplate, dented by the shot but not broken.

“There,” he said, “was it so difficult? Half a finger thick, and it stopped a bullet at short range. Double the thickness and it will protect you from the Duke’s calibre up to point range, like I showed you,” he pointed at the table, full of odd mathematical nonsense which went all over her head.

She huffed.

“You make it look so simple, old man. _Double thick_! What do I look like, a sandwich?”

“I can understand the principle of energy conservation does not apply to you the way it applies to momentum or thermodynamics, witch,” and there it was once again with that gibberish, “but you _do_ have the energy for it! Use it!”

Cornelia crossed her arms. He just didn’t get it.

Nor that _she_ did.

Do humans _knew_ how their fleshy appendages worked, after all? Or do they just move them around, caring little of anything at all, since the day you were born?

Cornelia _knew_ she needed energy. She _knew_ Princess could give her that energy (and she _did_ , every night. Cornelia often wondered if she kept any for herself). She _knew_ that keeping her armour up required an expenditure of energy much higher than blasting artillery or men. Even humans have to make a bigger effort to keep their arms up continuously.

Why couldn’t he _get_ it?

“And you are even more scatterbrained than usual, witch! Are you losing your mind?”

Cornelia blinked, and something veiled her perception for a moment. A memory of light, of golden light playing with Princess’ blonde hair, scattering in a shower of colours.

“No.”

“You always seem distracted, unfocused. Tonight’s our Princess’ life is in your hands. Have you forgotten it?”

“I… no!”

“Because it looks like she’s nothing to you, witch. And you may go back to dream your sleep when all this is over. But she will have to stay. Ever thought of that?”

“It’s… it’s not my business!”

The old man put his finger against her breastplate. He was taller than Princess but even then, he only reached up to her chin. Still, for a moment Cornelia understood why Princess spoke of him with awe.

“As long as she’s summoned you, she’d damn well your business. Tonight… tonight she might get herself killed.”

Come on! Princess? She’d find some loophole like last time, and cheat even death!

She couldn’t…

She couldn’t, right?

Cornelia found herself entertaining the thought. It left her bitter.

“She’s thrown herself completely in your arms, witch. As much as this is something that sends my blood boiling. You’re _responsible_ of her!”

Cornelia didn’t say anything for a few long minutes. 

The old man withdrew his finger, panting. Agile as he was, the effort must have drained him. He came back to his table, scribbling down numbers and other odd notes, shaking his head.

She was… was truly Princess so dependant upon her? The young blonde always seemed so stalwart, so stiff, teasing her had always been a pleasure. 

But for the first time, Cornelia found herself thinking that she might play a larger role in that than the Pact they shared. The Pact tied her to protect the Princess, the Kingdom, and then her own safety.

Yet… the picture of Princess laying down, all that red on her chest, boiling, fuming, coming out of a hole not dissimilar from what those booming sticks carved into her own armour, and flesh… 

And she was a witch…

“Pops,” Cornelia said, feeling like her lips were moving on their own, “you spoke so long about your ideas of different designs for my armour my ears fell off. Why didn’t we try some of them?”

“Because you refused in the beginning to, and I quote, change the design of my perfect armour?”

Cornelia bit the inside of her mouth. The nerve of this man. The things she did for…

The things she did.

No matter for whom.

“Let’s see what you come up with, Pops…”


	4. Intermezzo

#  I lay in bed next to the witch, her hands caressing my back. After a full day of training with Alfiere, and feeling moderately better in my fighting skills, the other important part of the plan was to make sure the Bondwitch was well-fed and filled with energy for our upcoming sortie. 

Her hands had started to wander around my shoulders. It was proving… distracting, and yet it had a soothing quality that I never felt before. Maybe it was because I was getting used to the witch’s touch? Maybe it was because I had no time to think about embarrassment when I was about to do the stupidest thing I could do? Mayb-

“It’s a stupid plan,” the witch said behind me. Her lips brushed against the back of my neck. “and you don’t have to come.”

Shifting under the sheets, I turned to look her in the eyes. There was something odd, and new there, something I couldn’t put my finger upon. Alfiere’s words rang again in my mind, about his stationing in Kublai and the servant girls… I couldn’t understand the look in Alfiere’s eyes before, and I couldn’t in the Bondwitch’s eyes now.

There was this quality of green in them… so clear, so pure, drawing you in…

The witch’s breath upon my lips stopped me from drawing in further. I blinked, and came back to my senses. What was she saying? Stupid plan?

“You are at my service, witch. I have spent the last few hours paying you in advance. No chance in letting you out of my sight.”

Was that… an odd flash of an emotion I couldn’t place ran across the witch’s eyes, extending a shadow upon her brow.

It was gone in a moment, hidden behind her usual smirk.

“You mean no chance in letitng my cute butt out of your sight?”

“… what?”

“Come on, little mouse, I have seen how you keep on looking at it. That thing you did before, with your…”

“… you truly are a most despicable partner,” I said as I turned back, showing her my back.

“Fine,” she answered, chilly, “if you want to keep on playing the child, _Princess_ , be my guest.”

The bed rustled as the bondwitch followed my example.

I sighed, inwardly. It was not that I was mad at her. Not really.

Not much.

It was just… tossing a look out of the windows, I saw the moon approaching its zenith. We would be supposed to leave the castle in a while. Once out of Menenia’s walls, there would be no saying how long the witch’s powers would be able to protect her and myself. It was one thing to charge head-on against an unsuspecting army, surprise effect on our side, shocking and awing them into retreat, like we did last Saturday, when I made my pact with the witch. 

I looked at my charred hand: the right wrist, palm and fingers had been ash-like in colour and texture ever since that day. And each day, at the first light of dawn, a new line of cinder went to add to the profile, slowly eating away at my right hand, turning flesh into animated ash.

The witch had promised me my hand would turn back to normal once the pact was fulfilled.

She had also said she’d never been summoned for more than three days. 

We were now in uncharted waters, the both of us. I cared about my hand, of course. It was a good hand, it had served me well. Yet I could bear the thought of losing my hand if it meant Menenia would be safe. I wasn’t worried about my safety. Not that much. Not even if the thought of death by shooting was dawning with more and more force to the side of my thoughts I tried to keep buried.

But what if _the witch_ was concerned about my safety?

The thought was surprisingly unpleasant: it didn’t just ran untrue compared to the rest of the witch’s behaviour (what with those smirks, those sarcastic quips, those back-handed retorts?) it also made me feel… wrong inside. Somehow.

How so? 

The witch was nothing more than a weapon, a tool. A tool doesn’t get attached. A tool doesn’t have feelings, or hopes and fears. A tool executes, and then is discarded.

I had paid dearly for the use of that tool: with the other seven witches, they would have been content with a cup of my royal blood, and would have given their services, no question asked. Cornelia had required me to strip of my clothes, me to remove layer upon layer of the cuirass I had covered myself with, she had required to see Alba under the protective surface of the Princess. And lying there with her, I found myself thinking: I had given to mind in offering my body to the Bondwitch. If she required me to give my all for the safety of my kingdom, so be it. 

It was but a way of payment. 

Then why did I feel that she was getting _attached_? That this wasn’t just a partnership any more? Was it the way I had allowed her to follow me in Church? Was it the way I felt so elated when I explained her my plan to break the siege? Was it the way my heart beat faster when I was standing next to her?

Restless and silent as a thief in the night, _something_ coiled around me, tying me to the witch. To Cornelia.

For the first time, I mouthed her name on my lips, hearing it roll out.

It wasn’t unpleasant. It felt a little bit like something new and old at the same time, like forgetting where my home was, and wandering like in a dream, until I’d come back on the doorstep.

And that scared me.

-

Cornelia had spent the last few minutes feigning the utmost stoic demeanour, but inside her, there was fighting going on.

For one, it was that old fool’s fault. His words were stupid anyway. She wasn’t _responsible_ for this namby-pamby Princess, never had been. She would fulfil her pact, save the kingdom from invasion, and then leave.

This was she could enjoy some peace and quiet, far away from all this racket.

The inside of her obelisk had never felt so appealing.

Yeah. Peace and quiet, floating in the void.

Mind not occupied by a thousand thoughts, like _what if Princess gets hurt_ and _am I strong enough to protect her_ and other things. 

It was just her way of payment. It was just… she just needed… energy. Energy she would get through caress and touch and bit and moan and breath… it just was the way things _worked_ with her. And never she did have a problem: never she felt this… odd sensation. Like a thread, or something like that. Like, if Princess felt something, she would feel something too.

Ridiculous.

She was not responsible of her in any way.

In _any_ way. She had just spent the last two hours saving as much energy as she could, trying to tie it to her most powerful and efficient of spells because it made her _feel better_ about herself. That was all.

She had spent an entire day barking back at that foolish old man and at his stupid designs and dumb mathematics and utterly gibberish lines and equations and whatever they were called because… because…

She was kidding herself.

Cornelia bit her lip, and shivered under the sheets.

It was nice.

Not to stay in the crystal.

Not to float around aimlessly. Talking to humans, even those that sent her flying on a fit of temper, like the old man. Like the ones that made her feel cold and hot and warm and freeze like Princess here.

What happened – and this was a pure theoretical musing – if the other end of the Pact died? Witches were subjected to death and destruction. She knew what would lay in store for her: her obelisk – shattered. Her life – turned not to peaceful half-slumber, but to void and oblivion. 

She didn’t like it.

What, though… what of the Princess? Would she go to Heaven like her God dictated? 

Cornelia remembered a time, long ago, when she and her sisters came to Menenia, there were still people worshipping other gods. It seemed that gods were less resilient than witches.

And humans were frail creatures. Frailer than twigs.

_She’s thrown herself completely into your arms_ , Pops said. 

She did. Princess did, more than once, to fuel her magic.

But what Pops meant… was another thing.

And it was that other thing that pushed Cornelia to move her hand towards the middle of the bed, and it was – maybe? She didn’t dare to hope for it – that same thing that made her find another hand, smaller, younger, welcome her in the middle.

The other hand wouldn’t turn, and they would just entwine their fingers in the sliver of space that still allowed them to rest, to breath before taking the plunge. A strange space, a space built of silence and unspoken words, weighing that much more because unutterable.

But the other hand in hers moved, and shifted her fingers to grab her own, and Cornelia, Bondwitch, felt the ghost of a smile tug at the end of her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to add a little extra chapter; Alba and Cornelia needed a moment of peace. I hope you enjoyed it! See you on next update, or if you wish, this story has already updated to next chapter on www.alchemicwriting.com. Thank you for reading!


	5. Witch Fighting on Wednesday - Part I

#  I couldn’t say we were ready, but damn if we didn't try to act as if we were. 

I had chosen a very light mail, the kind of which could protect me from a knife, not a bullet: I hoped the witch would provide much stronger defence, and covered it with large dark clothes that allowed me to move freely. It wasn’t the first time I wore pants – I often wore them in training – and yet… it was a strange thought, dying while wearing pants. A strangely ridiculous thought, that contrasted strongly with the direness of the situation if anything went wrong.

The witch, instead, wore her usual armour, though I saw its design changed from the simple and highly-detailed style I had seen since then, it was now a series of knots, rivets, and curves, as sharp as leaves, that covered her from her shoulders to toe. It reminded me of the designs of armour of last century, before muskets made them definitely obsolete. 

“I see you came to accept Andronicus’ suggestions,” I commented with a hint of a smile.

“It was a joint effort,” Cornelia answered, “Pops did the maths and I tried to salvage what fashion I could.”

“I think the result looks fine.”

“Oh, Princess here thinks I look fine. Now that makes me ready to stick my neck out tonight.”

I bumped my fist against her side.

“Just protect your Princess. And do not die.”

The Bondwitch laughed, softly. In the darkness of the inner court, its echoes sounded odd, but they didn’t last long.

Silence, though, did. There’s always, I found, a stretch of silence before somebody says something hard to say, of speaks when he has to. It happens at funerals, and I had seen it many times during war or economy meetings. 

I cut it short.

“Whenever you wish.”

The witch perked up.

“Does that mean we can do the deadly sortie another time?”

“My fault for thinking you’d take this seriously. Let’s go, witch. Now.”

The witch grumbled something, and from the soil and dust from the ground a shape slowly took form, elongated, like a knife or a leaf: the witch’s board came back to life, and hovered at knee’s length from the ground.

“Royals first,” she instructed, and I stepped on the board. Like the last time, when I guided the first on the first assault that broke the siege, the board felt as solid an unyielding beneath my feet as if it were marble. Reassuring.

The witch stepped in front of me, lifted her arms: black arms came out of her shadows, the same I had her conjure back in the war room back on Monday. They covered us in a cocoon, slowly eating the rest of the light away, and I felt as if a veil was being pushed against my eyes. Something primeval squirmed inside me, the same fear of the blind horse that meekly follows its master because it cannot see.

I was in the same situation, save for a few thin strips of light coming from the wall of shadowy arms: they pulsed and radiated a deadly chill, a grave chill.

Then, with the same sound of a whiff of breeze, we began to move. I adjusted my weight on the board; the witch did the same. We were predicted to arrive at the enemy camp in little less than half an hour, under Andronicus’ estimates.

I left one last short prayer behind myself: _be safe_.

Then the board moved up and we left the protective perimeter of Menenia’s inner wall, aiming for the Duke’s camp, beyond all hope and sanity.

-

According to the Duke’s experience, storming Menenia would be an easier prospect than most. There were though complicating matters. One of these matters was the fact he had do idea, notwithstanding the bravado he used to cover this fact, where the old passages highlighted in the map would lead them: they might as well end up in a kitchen, as in the main square. He just had too little information.

His intuition, though, made him think that there could be a better chance: such old passages usually connected with secret rooms and hidden halls, where noble or rich people were used to have their most unsavoury past-times.

Other complicating matters were, as usual, the c _ondottieri_. 

“Why should I cover myself with this shit,” he asked yet again, eyeing the dark bowl of fat the Duke himself was currently covering his face and arms with.

“It’s dark outside my dear friend Ferrante: better for us to be dark as well. And this grease will soon lose its odour, which I might agree to be quite _pungent,_ when exposed to air for a while.”

Ferrante eyed the grease as if it was about to bite him. Then, tentatively, took a handful of the stuff and started to cover his left arm with it. 

“Our Lady of Mercy’s tits, this stuff reeks more than my wife’s bandages on a full moon,” he hissed. Black-banner Giovanni, next to the two of them, laughed hard, the Duke couldn’t say if after the coloured image Ferrante conjured or at the sight. 

The three of them now ready to step out, the Duke called for four other men. Two of his, one belonging to Black-banner Giovanni, and one to Ferrante. The two _condottieri_ men couldn’t be more different: one large and tall, the other, Giovanni’s shorter and more lean, they had never stopped exchanging blows through gazes. As for the Duke, Alfonso and Gennaro served and followed him well since his first campaigns in Reggio. It would be good to have them with him tonight, and to provide counterweight to the _condottieri_ ’s presence. 

“Now, men, let us raise a cup of wine to the success of our sacred mission. Witches may not fear fire, but they fear _iron_ and the will of soldiers.”

The Duke passed to all of them a cup of red wine; drank a sip (Ferrante had a good gulp instead) and tossed it to the ground, where it shattered, followed by all the others, save for Ferrante, who took the time to finish his cup before letting it fall.

When he saw the other’s looks (even from his own soldier) he shrugged.

“What? To whom wine wastes, may God water forbid!”

The Duke shook his head. He just had to resist until dawn. Then he would get rid of these idiots. 

They moved in silence after that. Giovanni, covered in a few black straps made- or so he claimed – from one of his infamous banners, walked beside the Duke, low on the ground; walking slowly, next to a small river that passed next to Menenia, they would be less likely to be spotted. The wind blew against them, carrying the low noise of steps with itself; and for a time, the Duke felt like this endeavour of his could actually bear fruit.

-

You have to try flying. Even if this was my last night, even if I would end up on the ground with my head open, gliding over the plains, standing next to the Bondwitch on the board, with what little wind coming inside tickling my skin, felt out of this war, like a dream. Priests say that if man was created to fly, God would have given us wings, but I felt closer, maybe for the first time in my life, to the way Andronicus approached the matter.

We didn’t talk. The witch was strained with effort, and more than once I put a hand upon her shoulder to comfort her: she had explained, as well as she could (she seemed to have real problems with conceptualizing mathematics go figure apply them), that a sustained effort was to her far more taxing than a quick burst. This also made sense considering her assault pattern back on the first day: quick bursts, shock and awe, retreat. 

How much energy was she spending? If we actually came to combat would she able to defend me affectively? Would she be able to defend herself? Maybe a quick break could help her? Maybe…

My hand, as if from a will of my own, left her shoulder for her arm, to brush against her own hand. It was colder than I remembered. Look at me: about to risk my life in an all-out assault, putting the life of the last member of Menenia royalty at risk, and all I could think of was trying to comfort my war instrument.

The Bondwitch’s fingers coiling around my own felt like an answer to my own foolishness, though we were comforted by that foolishness, for a while.

As we approached the camp, Cornelia began to shift out movement: we flew higher, and slower, trying to get a clearer view of the camp. The first thing that struck me as odd was the silence.

Apart from the usual presence of soldiers mounting guard, and the parts of camp where mercenaries were, less familiar with discipline, the inner walls of the camp were filled with the red tents of the Duke’s, and were as silent as a funerary vigil.

Something inside me twanged: a chord out of tune. Something was wrong, though I still had no idea what.

For one, the camp was clearly divided in sectors, three surrounding a central one, and noise came from only two of them. Which might indicate these two were just filled with more dissatisfied soldiers, but the sheer number of what looked like higher-officers patrolling the tents was an odd detail just in and by itself.

Maybe there was a meeting? Maybe there was a problem with food? Looking away from the camp and at the fields surrounding it, where wheat had long since fallen either under soldiers trod or into their mouths, filled me with a seething anger. They had been eating and stealing _our_ food long enough.

“Lower towards the large red tent,” I instructed the witch with a whisper.

For once, she complied without a word. 

The red tent extended far more than the board could cover. It was covered with guard posts, and I recited another prayer for them not to look up. They were armed with muskets, and they looked more polished and modern than those of the army at large. Would the Bondwitch’s armour be able to withstand them?

“Can you deal with them,” I asked.

“Just watch me.”

The cocoon of darkness around us unravelled like a blooming flower, its corolla made of shadowy arms that descended like petals, like birds of prey, against the soldiers. I saw them coil around their neck, and enter their mouth to choke them. A few panicked sounds were everything that disturbed silence as Cornelia’s arms gently let the soldiers’ bodies lay upon the ground.

I nodded.

“Now.”

The board accelerated, cutting through air to stand in front of the tent. There was a high chance of inner sentinels, so I pushed Cornelia to peek through first. She opened the tent, revealing a dark room. The outline of a large table stood in the middle, covered with maps.

I followed the Bondwitch as we stalked inside the Duke’s tent. Where would he be? Yet the tent was silent. I saw Cornelia lift a corner and take a step inside another small room. She beckoned me to follow her.

The Duke’s bedroom was surprisingly Spartan, nothing like my own: a simple bed, books, a lamp. By then my eyes, now used to darkness, could even see an empty racket where an armour used to rest.

The Duke was nowhere in sight.

And the chilling sensation in my gut bit me stronger. Something was definitely wrong here. No Duke. Restless soldiers, but only in a part of the camp. It… maybe the Duke wasn’t used to sleep in his tent after all?

But no, the amount of clothes and personal items in this room dispelled that notion. There was even a half-filled water carafe.

No… it… 

I stepped back, as if called by some mysterious intuition. The table. If nothing else, I could get a look at their plans. I walked towards it once again like in a dream, but not a weightless, pleasant one, like before. This was a clenching nightmare.

A map of Menenia. Old. Why would he use such an outdated map?

Why would… then I noticed the red circles. The words surrounding them.

And everything was clear.

“Witch,” I hissed, panic already rising its ugly head. “Witch! We have to go back!”

“Leaving so soon? And we hadn’t even-”

“Witch, they are _going to enter the castle_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! We're approachin one hundred views, which, for an *original* work on this site, is mind-boggling! I hope you are all enjoying this story, and a big thank you to all those who left a kudo, or bookmarked this story, or even (you mad souls) left me some encouragement through mail! Thank you and see you with next part!
> 
> (Which, as a friendly reminder, is already updated on https://alchemicwriting.com/2017/06/21/bondwitch-www6-witch-fights-on-wednesday-part-ii/)
> 
> Hugs!

**Author's Note:**

> I give thee welcome to my original series, Bondwitch. The first arc, A Wickedly Witchy Week, comprises seven chapters from Sunday to Saturday, and tells the story of the first, hectic, days of the relationship between Princess Alba and Bondwitch Menenia; it's inscribed in the larger Bondwitch project, whicg comprises an upcoming short novella which will tell how Alba and Cornelia met, where, and how they made their pact in the first place, and it will be available on Amazon this summer, most likely by July.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this ride: let me know what you think with a comment, I can't wait to hear your opinion, review, or critique! And if you want more, remember that all my webfiction updates a day before on my main site, alchemicwriting.com, which also contains interesting articels, writing tips and a novel philosophy of writing!


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